Breaking Free from My Controlling Mother

I became infamous at school.

Wherever I went, Mom followed.

Attending classes with me was one thing—she even insisted on going to the restroom together, forbidding me from locking the door.

My roommates avoided me, and my classmates distanced themselves.

Just like the past twenty years of my life, I had no friends. No close confidantes.

After enduring it for a month, I finally snapped.

"What do you want from me?!" I screamed at her, breaking down. "What will it take for you to leave me alone?!"

She smiled, looking pleased with herself. "This is what happens when you disobey me. If you had just listened and applied to a local university, none of this would’ve happened."

Then she shrugged. "But if you really want me to leave, fine. Drop out. Retake the exams and apply to a school in our city."

I lost control. Right there on the street, I swung my bag at her, striking blindly.

Her smirk disappeared instantly. She burst into tears, sobbing and wailing, mucus running down her face.

Bystanders filmed the scene and uploaded it online.

The internet exploded with hate against me.

My mother started livestreaming, crying about my "unfilial" behavior.

Sympathetic viewers flooded her with comfort and support.

[My god, what kind of daughter is this? That poor mother must’ve done something horrible in her past life to deserve this.]

[If my kid ever dared to raise a hand against me, I'd break their legs. Make them regret ever being born.]

[Filial piety comes first. She’s going to get her karma for this!]

[If she can hit her mom in public, imagine what she does in private! Someone should report her.]

[This girl looks old enough. Juvenile detention won't take her, but the police sure will.]

My mother reveled in it, basking in the attention. Finally, she had something to keep her occupied.

For the first time, she wasn’t solely focused on me.

For the first time, I had a moment of peace.

But it was too late.

My depression had worsened.

When I experienced suicidal thoughts for the first time, fear consumed me, and I reached out to my father for help. Without hesitation, he set aside his work, taking an extended leave to be by my side.

He got me a medical leave from school and followed the doctor’s advice to support my recovery.

He took away my phone, cooked my favorite meals, bought me clothes he thought I’d like.

But no matter what he did, my condition didn’t improve.

Because while Mom continued her online "career," the internet’s hatred never stopped.

The harassment escalated until I couldn't even step outside.

I was too afraid to see their judging eyes, hear their whispers.

If I had done something wrong, I would have accepted the consequences. But I hadn’t.

I just didn’t understand.

Why was my mother like this?

To protect me, Dad rented an apartment in secret. But a viewer spotted me and leaked our location.

From that day on, the torment never stopped.

Hateful messages smeared in animal blood covered our walls—[Unfilial daughter, go die.]

They even sent funeral wreaths to our door.

The landlord caved under the pressure and evicted us.

Once again, my mother won. Dad and I returned home in disgrace.

She lounged on the sofa, admiring her freshly manicured nails, a smug grin painted her lips.

"Oh? Done playing runaway?" she sneered. "Big one and little one, thought you had it all figured out, huh?"

"Now that you're back, get in the kitchen and cook. I’m sick of takeout."

Then she turned to me. "And you—clean yourself up. You look disgusting. You're embarrassing me."

"You're embarrassing me."

How many times had she said that to me? How many times had she made me feel like I wasn’t enough?

I stared at her, my voice barely above a whisper. "Mom, why? Why do you do this to me? How long do you plan on controlling us?"

Immediately, she burst into laughter, tears forming at the corners of her eyes from amusement.

"Control you? You think you're worth controlling?" She smirked. "Even a dog knows to wag its tail at me. But you? You just walk around with that dead face all day."

My father finally had enough. With a loud bang, he slammed a frying pan against the counter.

Surprised, Mom flinched and shrieked, "Are you insane?! What the hell’s wrong with you?!"

"Enough!" he roared. "Alyssa is our daughter! Delete those videos, and stop livestreaming! She developed depression because of you! How much more do you want to torture her?!"

Her expression darkened. "Andrew, if you don’t want this marriage, just say it! You want to break things? Fine! Let’s break everything!"

She grabbed whatever was in reach and started smashing it.

The more expensive, the better.

Shattering glass, cracking wood—the violent noise shook me to my core.

It had always been like this.

Since my earliest memories, any sign of my father’s defiance turned into a full-scale war.

That was why he endured it all—for me.

He thought that if he stayed quiet, if he took the blows instead, at least I wouldn’t have to grow up in constant chaos.

But it didn’t work.

I turned around, went to my room, and slammed the door shut.

The loud bang triggered something in my mother.

She redirected all her fury at me.

She pounded on the door, harder than before, screaming curses as if I were the most vile, ungrateful child in existence.

I curled up under my blanket, covering my ears, but nothing could block her out.

I gripped the sheets tightly, whispering to myself, Hold on. Just hold on. She’ll get tired soon. She always does.

I didn’t know how long it lasted, but eventually, the pounding stopped.

When I finally stepped out, Dad was gone.

And my mother—she slouched on the sofa, breathing heavily from exhaustion.

The moment she saw me, a twisted light flashed in her eyes—victory.

Like a conqueror who had finally scaled an impossible mountain.

A deep, terrible feeling settled in my gut.

Something was wrong.